


Actions Speak Louder Than Words

by Syntaniel



Series: The Long Road Home [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:56:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11282325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: And around we go again but with a different cliche sort of phrase. How this went from a one shot to a likely trilogy is beyond me but I follow wherever the inspiration goes.The beginning will not make sense at all if you haven't read the first one but the tl/dr summary is that d'Artagnan's mother was a Romani (gypsy) - one of the most hated peoples of all time. He saved the King from a traitor that resulted, of course, in his injuries. But he's back with the Musketeers, recovering, except now they know his background and they all have to learn to live with it.As always, comment, kudos and the like are much appreciated and welcomed and no disrespect or disparagement is meant to the Romani people of any kind. Quite the opposite in fact.





	1. Chapter 1

It hadn't been the same. D'Artagnan had been recouperating for weeks. Was doing incredibly well in fact - walking with only a bare hitch in his step weeks earlier than Aramis had expected when he took the shard from his leg. But something was wrong. 

 

Well, Aramis considered as he watched d'Artagnan going through his forms, sharp eyes attentive for blood on his breeches or his tunic in the light of the setting sun. Wrong might be too strong of a word. They were in the grace of the King once again - his majesty suitably outraged by the explosion and grateful to his rescuers. The duc du Nivernias had been dismembered quite publicly within mere days of the explosion as both message and warning. His lackey and several servants who had assisted them hung with equal fanfare, quieting any hum of discontent in the local populace. The King was pleased with them, the Captain too, and the two weeks they had been awaiting their youngest's recovery had passed as pleasantly as they could have hoped. 

 

So it wasn't that there was something wrong exactly, he thought as he polished the barrel of his favorite set of harbeqois. His hands moved through the motions by memory as his dark eyes cut up to the yard, landing on Athos, leaning against the wall with his own eyes glued to d'Artagnan. Off would be more accurate. There was a tension in d'Artagnan's shoulders that his injuries could not explain, dark circles under his eyes that rest had not faded, and it seemed to be getting worse with time, not better. None of them seemed to know how to bridge the gap. 

 

Across the courtyard, d'Artagnan could feel their eyes on him as he held the form. His forearm quivered with the effort of holding the full extension at the end of the first form before moving smoothly into the second. He had borrowed Porthos' schiava for forms - the extra weight would help him regain muscles and reflexes dulled by the week of enforced bedrest. (And, oh, hadn't that been fun for all them? Snarling back and forth in concern and irritation and everyone being too careful to broach any subject that might cause pain. Passing the dreams off as pain gasps and enduring the extra coddling that begetted. D'Artagnan would have broken right out of his _skin_  if Aramis hadn't started letting him out into the yard.)

 

He steeled his leg against a minuscule tremor, feeling Athos' cool gaze on him. If he could hold his forms with the heavier sword, he could start sparring again. Once he started sparring again, he was effectively back on duty and d'Artagnan craved that - craved the exertion and the exhaustion that would follow for the vague hopes that it would mean a dreamless sleep.

 

The explosion that had nearly buried him had not buried the ghosts of his past. Rather, now that it had come back to haunt him, it seemed to haunt him truly - dreams of his mother and her soft voice singing tangling with his nightmares of before and flashes of his fathers' death. It seemed he could hear her even now, the music falling on his ears as if she hadn't been dead and dust for well over a decade,  _"The friends are gone, but I’ve stayed. There is no Morning Star. There is no Morning Star. My fellow-traveler, hey, who is my darling now..."_ He shook it off and forced himself back to his forms, the sword moving gracefully on muscle memory despite his distraction.

 

Sweat dripped down the side of his face in an agonizingly slow trickle and d'Artagnan focused on that. He was so focused, in fact, that he started when Athos came into his line of sight. "Athos!"

 

The other man held up his hands peaceably, though his brow creased in concern, "Are you all right? It seemed you were ready for a short bout but if you're too tired..."

 

"No, no, no," d'Artagnan hastened to assure him, laying the schiava gently near the fencepost and retrieving his sword. "I'm ready. More than ready." 

 

Athos quirked a smile at his eagerness but filed away in his mind the blank expression he'd seen when he approached. "Just a short bout," he cautioned as d'Artagnan took a guard position, "I'll not have Aramis killing me in my sleep for tiring you." The grin he received in response was blinding. 

 

"You let him reopen that leg wound and I won't wait for you to fall asleep," Aramis called from the tables at the end of the yard. The marksman's eyes were narrowed as he watched the two men fence. 

 

"Aramis." The warning tone in Porthos' voice was clear as he shuffled a deck of cards across the table.

 

Wide eyes swung around to him in mock affront, "Yes, dear?" His eyes widened in the picture of innocence but there was a twitch to his lips that told it for a lie.

 

Porthos tapped the deck on the table, pointing it at Aramis sternly, "Don't meddle." 

 

For a moment, Aramis thought of keeping up the charade but there was a warning in Porthos' eyes that dissuaded him and he glowered in response. "I wasn't going to meddle." Porthos arched an eyebrow and Aramis tossed his head with a scowl, "Much." He put his pistol down with an exasperated sigh, turning back to watch the tableaux in the yard. "There's something off; I know you can feel it. He's... distant."

 

Ignoring the irritation pouring off the marksman in waves, Porthos turned his gaze to the table as he calmly started laying out cards on the table. "Aramis." His tone clearly said he thought the other man was being an idiot and Aramis bristled in response. "Of course there's something off. Not only did 'e get blown up saving the King, but dat was in the middle of gettin' slapped in the face with..." His voice trailed off as he collected the cards again pursuant to some rule Aramis didn't know. 

 

The bigger man paused and turned a contemplative gaze onto d'Artagnan, watching the flash of steel. "It's a hard thing," he spoke slowly, hands absently shuffling the cards again without looking down. "It's a hard thing to face people from your past. No matter how it turns out." It felt like he would say more but the silence dragged on. 

 

"Amen," Aramis' words were soft as he squeezed Porthos' shoulder. They stayed that way for a long moment, listening to the crash of swords and watching Athos put d'Artagnan through his paces. Then Aramis hopped down from the table, "I'll go get us some food. Stop them if they try to start another round."

 

"They wouldn't dare," Porthos gave a wry grin. "'Sides, the sun's almost down." 

 

And indeed, it was only scant minutes before Athos called a halt to the bout as the shadows in the yard deepened. Some of the kitchen boys were already running around the yard, lighting torches and handing out a few scant candles. Athos raised his sword in a salute, warmth dancing in his blue eyes, "Well done, d'Artagnan." The Gascon warmed at the rare praise, wondering if he should find it odd that he felt closer to the older man at the business end of a sword than he had in the last two weeks of his convalescence. Athos tilted his head towards d'Artagnan's wound, "Your leg?"

 

"It's fine." The words tumbled out, almost careless, and d'Artagnan felt his face flush at the pointed look that he received in response. "Truly, Athos." He shifted that leg forward, "No blood, nothing's reopened. No reason for Aramis to yell." He couldn't read the intensity of the look on Athos' face in the dim light but tried for a smile of his own before fleeing towards their table. 

 

A huge bright grin was splitting Porthos' dark face and d'Artagnan ducked his head to hide the sudden flush of heat. "Lookin' good, d'Art." Fortunately, Aramis arrived then with the food and saved him from making a response. 

 

Porthos and Aramis both made a determined effort during dinner - filling the air with stories and laughter. Their mugs clattered on the table and the wine flowed though none of them were foolish enough to think that Aramis wasn't tracking every particle of food d'Artagnan ate.

 

Athos could see d'Artagnan trying as well; the Gascon forcing his focus back to them whenever it wandered and dutifully eating the meal Aramis had gotten for him. And yet.

 

The vague sensation of separation between them was been driving him insane. And it was almost more irritating now that he felt a shadow of their former closeness while they sparred. The Gascon had stopped trying to distract them but that left them distant. There was a gap forming between them and Athos hated it more than he'd thought possible but he didn't know how to breach it. He didn't have the right tools and a sword wasn't enough. Not for the first time, he wished he had killed Jehan when he had the chance, if only it would erase that look in d'Artagnan's eyes. But even as he watched d'Artaganan's eyes unfocused, looking at something else.

 

The Gascon stared at the glow of the candle, letting the sounds of the others wash over him without really hearing the words. A moth flitted into view, hovering around the candle, and he hears a distant memory, _"There's all sorts of omens out there, little love. You just have to see them. See there? A moth around a candle flame. That means there'll be a letter in the morning."_  

 

A warm touch on his arm brought d'Artagnan back to the present and he blinked away the distant memory as he looked around in confusion. Athos had leaned toward him, his forehead almost touching, as if enclosing them from the world. His blue eyes were solemn and concerned, "D'Artagnan, are you all right?"

 

For a moment, still wearing that unguarded expression, d'Artagnan opened his mouth and Athos held his breath. But d'Artagnan shook himself, like a dog shaking off water, and mustered up a blank smile, "I think I must be more tired than I thought." He pushed away from the table to stand, "I'm to bed. I'll see you gentlemen in the morning." 

 

If Athos were a brave man, he knew, he would follow d'Artagnan. Follow him and do anything to make him talk. If he were a brave man. But, Athos thought to himself as he took hold of the wine bottle, he'd always known himself for a coward. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to hold this back till I finished the next section but since that's not likely to happen till this weekend, here you go. 
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and the comments. They are infinitely appreciated.

Even though the bout had been short, the exertion had made a difference. D'Artagnan's dreams had been only fragments - the sharp flash of steel, the rich scent of jasmine, the cold sting of rain against his face. But the change was enough that his sleep starved body overslept and he was the last to the yard.

Porthos is the first to visibly react to his presence, a wry grin crossing his face, though d'Artagnan could see shades of relief. Athos was slumped against the wall, his hat pulled low as if he were sleeping, but d'Artagnan couldn't help but notice the position put him in an ideal place to watch the stairs from the barracks and he could feel the intensity of a blue eyed stare, even if his eyes were too much in shadow to see it. 

Aramis looked disgruntled for lack of a better term and grew even more so when Porthos handed his medic statchel back to him with a flourish and a chuckle, "You owe me a game for t'at extra sleep, d'Art. Aramis wanted to go check on you an hour ago and Athos sure wasn't stopping him." He discreetly did not mention that he was quite sure Athos had lingered outside his door before coming down for a good five minutes trying to convince himself that d'Artagnan was still breathing and just getting some much needed sleep.

D'Artagnan groaned in mock annoyance as he slung himself down on the bench next to Athos, "Wouldn't it be easier for me just to give you my purse and have done with it?" He cocked his head on one hand, nearly rolling his eyes at the absurdidty. "The end result's the same and it would be a whole lot less embarrassing for me." He could feel the rumble of Athos' low laugh where his uninjured thigh pressed against his as the older man shoved breakfast towards him.

From the door to his office, Captain Treville listened to them laughing, tapping some parchment in his hand. His eyes narrowed in contemplation for a long moment as he watched Aramis check the younger man's wounds while he ate. The explosion had taken them all off guard. When the bomb had gone off and the Palace walls trembled in the wake of the blast, for one horrible moment, Treville had thought he was back on the battlefield. He had no conscious memory of drawing his pistols, just of finding himself standing over their majesties, guns drawn, as Athos and Porthos helped him herd them through the dust and the smell of burnt gunpowder to the safer inner chamber. 

To his sorrow, he hadn't found out about d'Artagnan till later - when all the dust had settled and his majesty finally allowed him to return to the garrison, mystified as to why his best team of men had not reported in even after the duc du Nivernias was brought in beaten to a pulp. He had known then that something was wrong. 

He hadn't known the extent until Aramis had reported in his capacity as medic. The marksman had been quietly furious as he gave his report in a way that d'Artagnan's injuries did not adequately explain. At first, Treville had passed it off as a kind of impotent fury - the fury of failure, of letting a brother get hurt. That would at least partly explain the pained look that Athos had about him when he thought no one was watching. But it wouldn't explain d'Artagnan. 

Treville had been watching and d'Artagnan had been... different since the explosion. He would put it off to the trauma of the injury but this was d'Artagnan and the Gason's resilience was well on its way to being legendary within the Musketeers. Sad to say, it wasn't even the first time the lad had been blown up since he cast his lot in with theirs. No, there was more there, Treville was sure of it. Something they weren't telling him, were possibly even hiding from him. 

Sharp eyes narrowed and the older man straightened as he came to a decision, "Athos! Porthos! Aramis!" He paused for a moment, squinting carefully as if weighing his options, "d'Artagnan! If you men are done lazing over breakfast, I have a mission for you." He could see the Gascon's face light up from across the yard and spared a moment to hope he was doing the right thing. 

Treville barely had enough time to return to his desk before they were in his office, blocking out the morning sun. The sun at their backs cast them in shadow and something in his chest throbbed to see them. He shuffled through the papers on his desk to hide the moment's vulnerability, clearing his throat before tapping the missive on the table, "I received a request from the Vicomte of Chatellerault." 

Aramis visibly winced and Porthos groaned, causing d'Artagnan to look between them in confusion. Porthos caught the look and shook his head, crossing his arms across his chest in a display that looked remarkably like petulance, "The Vicomte makes a complaint two or three times a year but he's gone crazy out there in his forest with nothing to do. Last time he thought he saw assassins in his pig pens!"

He turned a glare on Treville, whose own face remained distinctly unimpressed. "The Vicomte also happens to have a large tin mine under that forest of his. The only place in the whole kingdom where it can be found in fact so the King is very interested in keeping him happy."

Slanting a look at Athos, Aramis piped up, "But you swore you'd never send us out there again after..."

Treville cut Aramis off with a sharp look. "Be that as it may, I'm sending you now. The Vicomte is complaining of bandits again. Go out there and reassure him of his continued safety and security under the protection of the King's own guards."

Aramis opened his mouth again but Athos gave a short sharp shake of his head. The older man's piercing blue eyes were locked on Treville and the contemplation in that gaze gave Aramis pause. Athos knew better than any of them that the Captain had indeed sworn up and down after the last time that they would not be sent to the Vicomte again for far of causing an "incident." The Vicomte's deep forest had nothing to make the time bearable as they worked to convince the Vicomte that whatever threat he'd imagined that time was past. His vapidity put all of them on edge and the ensuing boredom suited none of them well. It tended to lead to bloodshed and property damage in equal measure. 

The Captain held his gaze steadily with too knowing eyes and Athos put the pieces together. Of course the Captain had noticed the... distance between the four. They had not told the Captain of d'Artagnan's heritage but the slight awkwardness between them must be as obvious as a red flag to one who knew them so well. He reconsidered the request at hand - it was an easy mission after all. A too easily spooked nobleman with a history of paranoia and an isolated forest. It would give d'Artagnan time to fully regain his strength without needing to tie him to the garrison and maybe on the open road... Athos gave a nod in concession. 

Aramis narrowed his eyes but refrained from commenting further and Porthos grumbled but settled into his pout without further complaints. D'Artagnan arched an eyebrow with a sardonic twist of his lips, "I take it we are going to Chatellerault?"

Treville leans back, tossing the letter at Athos, "Go to Chatellerault, console the Vicomte that no one is trying to kill him today, and get back safely. In that order." Even as they opened their mouths to assent, Treville looked up pointedly, "Chatellerault had better be standing when you leave."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's something appealing slow in this one to me so I'm running with it. Not quite as action packed from the start though there's certainly adventure to come. But this ended up nearly an interlude than anything else. I'm trying to stick to a new experimental rule of trying to post once a section is past 1000 words so it doesn't delay too long. Anyways, I hope you like this latest bit and thank you for the comments and kudos.

It wasn't until they left the bounds of Paris that d'Artagnan realized how hard it had been to breathe inside the city walls of late. He loved the city, loved the energy of it, the sheer excitement of so much going on and so many options. But from the moment Jehan had appeared at the gates, it had felt like a trap. So many directions to watch at all times as if his heritage was written across his face for all to see. So far, Jehan and Juliana had kept his secret but he couldn't trust them and, despite his friends' assurances, it still felt like a ghost of doom was hovering over the horizon. 

It was... easier away from the Palace to regain his balance and, by the time they made camp that first night, he could almost breathe again. They made quick work of camp, though Porthos took a saddle from d'Artagnan's hands before he could lift it. The younger man bristled but the twinge in his side silenced him and he went to join the others by the fire. 

Once the water was set to boil, Aramis gave him a narrow eyed look and started to stand. D'Artagnan shook his head before he even gained his feet, "I'm fine, Aramis." All three Musketeers glared at him and d'Artagnan rolled his eyes as he stretched his injured leg in front of him, tentatively stretching his side in the process.

"The scar tissue needs to be stretched," Aramis' voice is as pointed as his glare, "or you will lose mobility. It is much harder to stretch out after it's fully healed." 

A snort escaped the Gascon as he started rolling his thumbs down around the area of the wound, careful to disturb the scab as little as possible, "Strangely, I am aware of that Aramis." 

Athos winced at the words, even Aramis bit his lip, webs of silvery scar tissue dancing before their eyes. Aramis watched him intently for a moment but his movements are sure and steady as he massages the skin into suppleness. For his part, Athos' suddenly had an image in his head of a small d'Artagnan with coltish limbs having to learn this lesson this hard way and he felt ill. He dropped his eyes to the fire before his expression could change and took a long pull of wine, letting it burn down his throat. 

There's a hardness in Porthos' eyes as he came into the circle of firelight and Aramis knows that he heard, but he forced a grin as he slung himself into a seat by the fire, pulling out a pack of cards, "I think it's a fine night for a game."   
__  
As predicted, d'Artagnan's purse is the lighter for it after several hands and the Gascon folds the last time with a groan. "Easier to just hand over my purse, I swear," he muttered as he flung himself back onto his bedroll. 

It prompted a laugh from the others, a real true laugh, and Athos knocked d'Artagnan's leg with his foot deliberately as he moved to settle in for watch at a post convienently chosen to allow him to watch the woods and d'Artagnan both. Aramis bustled over to change the bandage on his side, something he would not be denied, and d'Artagnan didn't fight him on it, though he didn't move his arm from over his eyes either.

The burn was healing as well as Aramis could hope, only some small seepage around the edges of the now thick scab. He gently rubbed salve onto the bordering skin, hoping to prevent as much puckering as possible. Once the new bandage was secure, he rocked back on his heels, but d'Artagnan shooed him away as he rolled onto his uninjured side.

Porthos chuckled at the affonted look on Aramis' face as he shuffled the cards in his hands, not yet ready to sleep. Moving by feel, he absently laid out the cards in columns, more to keep the feel of the well worn deck in his hands than anything else. 

D'Artagnan watched him through the echo of the firelight. His mother had a set of cards, as worn as Porthos', the vivid paint worn down by age and time and travel. As the fire danced and the shadows flickered, he could see her small hands overlapping Portho dark skin, flipping the cards out with expert precision. He always loved looking at the fantastically painted cards - the wise face of the lion, the bright shine of the sun - her columns neat and straight on the table as she laid out the past, present, and future with a flick of her fingers. 

With only firelight to show them, he idly fancied Porthos' cards look like hers. His columns certainly do. There in the past, the five of spades blends into the faded memory of tiny sharp pointed swords. The clumsy paint on the jack of clubs in the present position seems to mimic the hanged man of his youth. And in the future column... d'Artagnan swallowed a gasp and blinks rapidly until the image of a smoking tower fades back into Porthos' Ace of spades, the smeared paint mocking him in the flickering light as the other man finally gathers up his cards to turn in.

D'Artagnan pulled up his blanket and laid down on his good side, rolling his shoulders as he did so to try and release the sudden tension. The camp quiets and the sounds of the night forest move in. Despite his ever present exhaustion, he found himself staring idly at the stars, the long forgotten hum of his mother's voice as she spun prophecies for his father in the dark battering against the back of his brain until a warm hand closed on his ankle and scattered the murmurings to silence. 

Athos determinedly did not look at him, his blue eyes focused on the dark forest, but his strong hand stayed on his ankle, gripping just hard enough to anchor d'Artagnan to him as if he had been floating off into the night. D'Artagnan exhaled a breath that felt almost like a sigh and closes his eyes to sleep.   
___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *As a note, as far as I know, there is no real way to trace whether or not the so called Romany spread for tarot actually came from the Romani beyond the name. I do know the format looks very similar to some games of solitaire I've seen. Also, both major and minor arcana and interpretations of regular playing cards for tarot all have a certain amount of interpretation to them. As for the other slightly mystical mentions, Romani have a number of superstitions and a firm belief in omens so I feel they're not a terrible stretch. I wasn't joking in the last story when it was mentioned that d'Artagnan's mother's clan was known as horse traders and star readers. As always, I mean no offense by any of this and certainly no degradation of the Romani or any of their fascinating culture.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so this turned out much more angsty than I expected this chapter to be but here it is. I am incredibly grateful as always for the comments and kudos.

They reached the boundaries of Chatellerault late in the second day, though d'Artagnan took that more on faith than actual knowledge since they were surrounded by unmarked forest. It was nightfall when they finally reached the main town. It was barely worth being called a town and d'Artagnan could see instantly how this place spelled trouble for the Musketeers. 

It was the type of town that had only two roads and one tavern and that filled with mine workers who barely had enough left at the end of the day to stumble in and choke down a drink to wash the dust from their throats before stumbling to whatever shack they call home. There was a simple storefront that he would bet his father's sword worked mostly on the barter system, shoved in between a raggedy assemblage of houses and alleys with some ragged farms off to the side. He supposed one or two of the buildings could be shops - there must be a blacksmith somewhere for he could hear the distant ringing clang of a hammer - and there was a spire of a church barely visible, but this was clearly a town that had been whittled down to bare purpose.

The black void of the mine was carved into the face of the stony hill, the entrance shored up with rough hewn logs like a gaping mouth. Next to is, the manor house loomed over the town. A pretentious bastard of a house clearly built of stone hauled from the mine and polished as if to turn it to gems. It was fortified with extra walls, though what they would need to defend from so deep in the forest, d'Artagnan had no idea. 

Porthos caught the look on his face and gave a grim laugh, "Yeah, now you see. There's not'ing here." 

Athos sighed at the near comical dismay in the other man's voice, eyebrow arched as he tilted his head towards d'Artagnan, "The Vicomte knows where his fortune lies. He has turned all his interests to the mines and has no imagination for anything else." 

Aramis shuddered, "What imagination he has is busy enough imagining assassins in pig sties and apparently now bandits." The marksman rolled his eyes dramatically. "Barely enough entertainment for a night or two and then..." He gave d'Artagnan his best wounded look. 

D'Artagnan gave him an arch look of his own, "Well then, the faster we convince him his life is not at risk, the better."

\---  
The Vicomte was going to be a problem. That was abundantly clear from d'Artagnan's first look at the man. Whatever overbearing ancestor had built the imposing castle and dominated the town had not handed down any of that temperament with his title. The current Vicomte was a tall man but of a nearly skeletal build, his spindly arms waving erratically through the air as he walked as if he'd never quite gotten the hang of where they ended. The bulky layered tunics he wore might have given his frame some bulk had he ever encountered a tailor but, as it was, the impression was awkward at best, like a lord's younger son trying on his clothes.

He hurried towards them down the hallway, eyes darting about in a way that made d'Artagnan think of small animals fleeing before the hunt. This was clearly a man who had been hunted his entire life by demons of his own creation. The thought made him look upon the man more kindly than he would otherwise be wont to, as the Musketeers doffed their hats in a bow. 

"Vicomte," Athos spoke as he rose smoothly, "his Majesty has heard your concerns and sent us to investigate them."

"Oh thank heavens, you're here! I knew Louis would not fail me." The Vicomte exclaimed, wringing his hands in front of him. "I was due at court for my annual visit weeks ago but I cannot leave for fear of those horrid bandits!" 

Looking sideways at Athos, d'Artagnan caught the tick of his jaw that he knew heralded 'accidents' on the road if left unchecked. "My lord," he interjected quickly, "you've seen evidence of these bandits?" 

The Vicomte blinked at him once, then twice, the effort of pulling his thoughts together visible on his face. "Oh they can never hide from me." His gaze turned disturbingly inward, "They think they can, oh yes, they think they can. But I always see them." There was an almost sing-song quality to his voice that had the musketeers exchanging glances that turned to alarm as he continued, "Those filthy gitain! Sneaking through my town. Stealing from me and mine. Bringing bad luck to everything and leaving the eye of the devil behind them." He turned away towards the windows, giving d'Artagnan a fortunate moment to swallow his shock. "They're hiding in the woods right now! Trying to trap me here so I lose the favor of the King!"

D'Artagnan's face had gone entirely blank in a way Athos found deeply unsettling on the normally passionate Gascon and guilt made a bitter taste in his mouth. This was not what he had intended for this mission. But before he could intervene, the Vicomte had whirled back to d'Artagnan, who straightened almost imperceptibly. Aramis was closer though and it was he who stepped forward and forestalled any further ranting by speaking, "Then, my lord, tomorrow we will investigate the woods and make sure that you are safe. And, if our very arrival was enough to chase them away, we will escort you to Paris for your visit."

The sheer level of charm he layered into his voice took the Vicomte by surprise but then the man practically beamed at them all, "Excellent, excellent. I knew Louis would not fail me." He looked around vacantly for a moment or two and then waved absently back at the main hall, "I'm sure my steward will have rooms prepared for you. He should be... that way."

Athos' eyebrow arched but they managed to take their leave without incident - which was a better start than the last time they'd been sent this way at least.  
\---  
The steward, a long suffering man in his 60s, was waiting in the hall for them. And if the Vicomte had forgotten their prior misadventures, it was clear from the unimpressed glare the steward leveled at them that he had no such memory problems. "Gentlemen," he sounded highly skeptical of the term. "I have rooms already readied on the west side of the house. If you would follow me."

The amount of disdain he was directing at the others was impressive but since it did not seem to include d'Artagnan (yet), he dared to ask, "Sir, have you seen any evidence of bandits?"

The older man stopped, the light from the torches glinting off the silver in his hair as he looked at d'Artagnan searchingly. After a long moment, he resumed a slow walk, his head tilted in consideration. "Several merchants have disappeared as late, while taking their goods to market. But there's always some attrition in a town like this and, given how isolated we are, if there was an accident, we are unlikely to hear about it. I have heard of nothing terribly unusual." 

With a cautious side glance at d'Artagnan, Porthos ventured to ask, "And the gitain?" 

D'Artagnan's expression remained blank as the steward clearly weighed his response. "There were gitain in the woods. Several servants I trust reported seeing them. They have used these woods before but since they have never disturbed the operations of the mine and they know better than to try and steal from so small a town..." He bowed at the entrance to a small hallway, with a wave of his hand at the doors beyond, "All of the rooms in this hall are ready and open for guests. You are the only ones present at this time so you may have your choice of room. I assume you will break your fast with his lordship at the morning bells before embarking on your... search." The weariness in his voice made it clear he doubted any serious search would occur but since he did not seem to be holding that against them, the Musketeers paid it no mind as he walked away. 

Ignoring the worried glances the others were surreptitiously shooting his way, d'Artagnan brushed by them into the hall to seek a room. Between the ride and the walk, it was more use than his leg had seen since his injury and it ached fiercely. He entered the first room he reached without bothering to examine it and sat heavily down on the bed. 

Somehow, d'Artagnan was unsurprised to see the others filing in after him. He was too tired to muster up any real annoyance at it and settled for a glare as he pulled the boot off his good leg. 

Porthos paid his glare no attention, instead looking around at the dark wood furnishings and giving a low whistle as he ran a hand down a velvet curtain, "Well, I'll say one thing for the Vicomte, he's put us up in fancy digs this time."

"I want to look at that leg," Aramis' voice was firm and Athos loomed to the side, his arms crossed over his chest. 

D'Artagnan scoffed at them both, "You just want to get me out of my pants." He started to reach down for his other boot but the motion pulled at his side and, at his flinch, Athos' hand was on his chest, his expression unreadable. 

Aramis' tone was dry as the desert when he crouched down to pull off the other boot, "Oh yes, it's my life's ambition." He rolled his eyes hard enough that it should have hurt while he took off his gloves and waited for the inevitable concession.

It was a relief when there were only a few spots of seepage and the skin around the still healing wound was cool to the touch. Aramis prodded the area as gently as possible, checking the suppleness of the skin and the tenderness of the area. It was still tender but the scab was solid and d'Artagnan had done a good job of keeping it pliant. The scar would be slightly uglier as a result but he wouldn't lose any movement.

Truly, it was the burn area that worried him more but one look at the brittle expression on d'Artagnan's face and Aramis decided he had pushed enough for one night. Especially given the concentrated way the young man was not looking at any of them while his leg was exposed. "It's doing well enough though I'll want to see your side in the morning."

D'Artagnan nodded mutely and the medic stood, clapping a hand on Athos' shoulder in reassurance. Porthos glanced over and shook his head at the tension nearly humming in the air. Fortunately, there were other issues at hand for a distraction. "So, what's the plan?" He settled his bulk in one of the ornately carved chairs, ignoring the ominous creaking from the delicate spindle legs.

Athos glanced over at him without moving from d'Artagnan's side, "No matter how appealing it might be, we can't just ignore his complaints." 

Porthos waved an unconcerned hand, "So we take a nice leisurely ride through the woods." His features split into a bright grin, "We'll have some target practice and we can come back and tell 'im that we scared them off."

"And you expect that to work?" d'Artagnan's voice was bitter. "When the Vicomte has already decided who his 'bandits' are?" 

The words put a strained expression on Athos' face, like he wanted to skewer someone but didn't have a target. He shifted back slightly, as if he only just noticed how close he'd gotten, and the movement brought d'Artagnan's eyes to him. "If there's another clan in the area..." 

Something fierce and angry caught fire in d'Artagnan's eyes as they narrowed and his jaw jutted out mulishly. "There's no proof of that. People call every bandit, thief, and wanderer a gitain," he spit the word. "They don't care if it's true or not. But if it's true, if you're asking if I can find them, if they're using patteron to mark their camp, probably."

"You won't have to..." Aramis hadn't even finished the sentence before d'Artagnan bristled. 

"Because my mother was one of them?" he spoke harshly, something dark and resigned behind his tone. "Does that make me so different? Would you have said that a month ago?" His eyes burned before he dropped them to his now covered leg and away from them. There was a desperate defiance in his voice when he spoke again, "I will do my duty. I am a Musketeer."

We were friends once... With a kind of dawning horror, Athos heard the words in his memory and could see how this looked to d'Artagnan - how much it must resemble what happened so long ago. He wondered distantly in the back of his mind if d'Artagnan had been waiting for weeks for them to start treating him differently, as less, and it made him ill to think it. Athos breathed out slowly, holding onto his control and forcing his mind to the present even while part of him plotted murder. He packed every ounce of certainty he could into his voice as he squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder, "You are. Nothing has changed." Athos wanted to say more, to wipe that look from the younger man's face but the words stuck in his throat.

For once, Aramis too was at a loss for words. He wanted to say something, wanted to explain that d'Artagnan had misunderstood - he had only meant to try and save him more pain - but it was clear from the look on the Gascon's face that he wouldn't hear it. His hand twisted in his belt to keep from reaching out.

Porthos came to the rescue, his gruff voice breaking the sudden silence, "If they're not doing anyt'ing wrong, they have not'ing to fear from us. You know that, d'Art."

Faith goes both ways, d'Artagnan realized. Because he did know that; he knew these men, knew the bent of their honor. He hung his head, dark hair hiding his face and muffin his words, "I'm sorry." Mastering his expression, he ran a hand through his hair as he looked up. "He said gitain and my mind just froze. I wasn't ready so soon after..." d'Artagnan visibly stopped himself before he could go on. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

Athos squeezed his shoulder, thinking of all the rash things he'd promised himself when d'Artagnan was lying still and bleeding on a bed. "Don't be sorry." The gruffness in his voice made d'Artagnan look up at him and he looked so tired, so much of the rest of the past two weeks undone. Athos' face softened, "Get some rest. The Vicomte is more likely jumping at his own shadow and the worst of it will be keeping from killing him on the way back to Paris."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are again. Though things are starting to speed up for our heroes. ;)  
> Thanks as always for comments and kudos. They are very much appreciated and remain endlessly motivating. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

The hall was still wreathed in shadows when Athos emerged the following morning. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, guarding from sunlight that hadn't yet penetrated the manor house, but he could see Porthos' bulk against the wall and hear the sleep rough tones of Aramis' complaints about his empty bed. The absence of d'Artagnan's usual snarky rejoinders was glaring and he turned narrowed eyes onto the others, the question clear on his face, as he tucked his gloves into his belt.

Aramis shrugged from his position slouched next to Porthos, "He hasn't come out yet. If he's actually sleeping, I was loathe to wake him before time."

While Athos certainly agreed with the sentiment, he had never had enough optimism to believe it. He grunted low and changed direction towards the younger man's door.

"While you're in there," Aramis called after him lightly, "check his side. He'll likely take it better from you."

Athos thought he heard Porthos mutter something under his breath that sounded like 'meddler' but ignored it as he knocked on the door. There was a muffled noise from inside that he took for consent and he pushed into the room only to stop, just inside the door, in surprise.

The door swung gently shut as he took in the empty bed and the Gascon ensconced on the window seat, his dark head resting against the glass, lashes smudging his cheeks. His long legs stretched out before him, boots and breeches already on, but he held his shirt loose in his lap and his eyes stayed closed even as Athos moved closer. The burgeoning light played over the planes of his chest, scar tissue winking against olive skin like a tiger's stripes coming into the sun.

Without opening his eyes, d'Artagnan's lips parted on a tired sigh, "See? I waited so you could check the burn and everything."

There was a petulance to his tone that Athos found endearing and, despite himself, his response came out fond as he neared the window, "Did you sleep at all?"

Startled, d'Artagnan's eyes flew open, "I thought it was Aramis." His hands clenched on the shirt in his lap but he made no move to put it on or to answer the question.

Suppressing the twinge in his chest, Athos halted and gestured towards the door, "I can get him, if you'd prefer..."

"No, no," d'Artagnan interrupted, surprise fading to rueful embarrassment as he laid his head back against the window. He quirked a grin up at Athos, the faint light reflecting off his eyes like polished mahogany. "He just seemed like he would be insistent on it last night."

Moving closer at the reassurance, one side of Athos' lips lifted in a smile as he admitted, "He did charge me to check on it."

"Of course he did," d'Artagnan shook his head, lifting his arm carefully to expose his side. The casement had been opened slightly and he turned his face to the cool breeze coming in.

Athos crouched down beside him. The damaged area still spanned the breadth of his palm, the scab cracked from the movement of the day before but still holding. The outer edges had already turned the pink of new formed skin. He ran his fingers lightly over the barely healed edges, feeling the rough texture there but none of the tell tale heat of infection. His thumb smoothed over the edges of the new tissue, kneading it lightly towards the old skin. He felt a shudder and looked up, an apology on the tip of his tongue, to be caught by the darkness in d'Artagnan's eyes.

Transfixed, as if trapped in amber, a long moment passed but then Athos came back to himself with a start and pulled his hand away. He ducked his head to hide how flustered he was, pulling on his gloves with more attention than the task deserved as he stood. "Come," his tone was brusque, "The others are waiting for us to break our fast and I can feel your ribs."

Already tucking his shirt in, d'Artagnan moved to join him at the door, holding the rest of his things. He offered Athos a shadow of his usual smile but it was genuine at least, "Then we'd best get there before Porthos and Aramis finish it all off."  
\--  
The Vicomte was there when they arrived, which surprised d'Artagnan given the usual predilictions of nobility, but his prescence was not nearly as surprising as his garb. For the Vicomte was wearing full evening wear at just past dawn. The silvery satin of his coat shone even in the limited light of the hall and the lace at his sleeves fluttered as he paced back and forth in the room.

The very sight of him made all four Musketeers wary and, with a glance, they all grabbed food that could be eaten quickly or carried away away at need. A footman calmly wove in and out between them, skillfully assembling what must be the Vicomte's plate. It was placed at the head of the table; at which point, a second footman stepped up. Under the Vicomte's watchful eye, the second footman took delicate bites of each portion of food on the plate before giving the Vicomte a watchful bow.

Athos and Aramis exchanged an arch look and Aramis ventured, "My lord..."

The Vicomte looked up almost absently, "You think me silly for having my taster here." He shook his head at their denials, "I can see you do." His smile became a too wide grin as his eyes glittered and he waved his metal spoon in the air as he flung himself bonelessly into his seat. "You think me silly and yet just barely a year ago, I was poisoned! Poisoned I tell you!"

From his post near the door, the steward gave a sigh that was so long suffering, Porthos had to hide a grin. "My Lord," the steward spoke carefully, "as I advised you at the time, the spoiled meat was the fault of the underchef, not poison."

The Vicomte cast a conspiratorial glance at the Musketeers, "He wants to protect me. But I know the truth!"

"Ooookay." Porthos muttered under his breath, half turning to the others to muffle his words, "I vote it is time to go."

A loud bang crashed through the air as the Vicomte slammed his spoon to the table, "No whispering!"

D'Artagnan swiftly moved in front of Porthos, executing a flourishing bow, "Forgive us, my lord. We simply were discussing that we should start looking for the bandits as soon as possible before they can attempt such a thing." As he straightened, he did his best to project earnestness.

Eyebrows raised, Athos cast him an incredulous look but the Vicomte beamed and waved a lace draped hand towards the door, "Of course of course! How brilliant of you! Take whatever you need."

At the end of the hall, the steward opened the door at his words and all four men quickly grabbed their food and slid out of the room before he could change his mind. Aramis ran a gloved hand through his curls as the door closed behind them, "Well done, d'Artagnan. I was starting to fear he'd turn on us next."

The steward bristled at the tone but d'Artagnan was already shaking his head, "I don't think he's that far gone." Contemplative brown eyes turned back to the closed door as if he could see through it to the troubled man within. "I mean, clearly he's more than a bit paranoid but so far, everything seems to have a... seed." His eyes squinted briefly as he considered it before turning back to meet the incredulous looks of the others, "I mean, you heard the steward - he did get sick from his food. Sounds more like spoiled meat than poison but there was something there. And if there are..." d'Artagnan broke off with a careful flick of the eyes towards the steward standing sentinel at the door before forcing himself to continue, "...gitain in the woods, then he likely has seen people sneaking about in the woods, even if they mean him no harm."

Meeting d'Artagnan's eyes with a look of wonder in his own, the steward bowed low before going back into the dining hall. D'Artagnan looked back at the others and shrugged, "It sounds like he's been alone out here too long. It messes with how you perceive things."

Aramis winced but tilted his head in concession of the point, "The King can get him some help when we get him to Paris. If you're right, perhaps time away from here will do him good."

"Still," Porthos added, clapping a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder as the four start towards the stable, "never hurts to be cautious." His face split in a grin as he added philosophically, "Especially when we can't kill him."

"Shouldn't," Athos corrected as he watched d'Artagnan thoughtfully, clearly not quite ready to write the Vicomte off as harmless yet. "Shouldn't kill him."  
__

The woods immediately surrounding the town were quiet. They rode a wide perimeter from the manor side of the mountain, around the town, to the other side before the sun reached its zenith. It was on the other side that d'Artagnan stopped, looking deep into the woods. Athos reigned up beside him, shielding his eyes from the sunlight beaming through the sparse trees before casting a questioning glance.

"They were here," d'Artagnan confirmed, squinting into the shadows. "But the signs are old. A month or more, I'd guess."

Piercing blue eyes focused on him, "Does that mean they've gone?"

D'Artagnan shrugged, "Or they got so used to the woods around the village that they stopped needing the markers." His horse pawed at the ground nervously and he patted the gelding's neck without turning his gaze from the woods, tilting a nod towards a faint path, "We'll have to go deeper if we want to be sure."

There was something in his gaze that had Athos opening his mouth to ask if he was all right but d'Artagnan's jaw tightened and the memory of the other night derailed that train of thought completely. He settled for laying his hand on the younger man's arm, pleased when that grip seemed to anchor him and brought his attention back to Athos. "We should eat first," the older man's voice was gentle but he threw a wry look at their companions, "Otherwise, Porthos' stomach will give us away."

The man in question cackled as he patted his stomach with a smug glare, "I can't help that I'm a growing boy."

They dismounted in a clearing nearby with laughter and the inevitable teasing about exactly which way Porthos was growing. D'Artagnan was looping his reins around a tree, chuckling, when he heard it - the stark cry of a gull. Laughter gone, his head jerked to survey the sky, dark eyes scanning until they lit upon the delicate white wings tracing circles overhead. The bird tilted into a curve, only to be rebuffed by the wind. The gull gave a final throaty cry right overhead and d'Artagnan felt himself spiraling back into memory as he watched it fly away.

_"You have to pay attention, little love," his mother's laughing voice hit his ear even as she ruffled his hair, drawing his attention away from the horse he'd been watching in the paddock. His legs swung as he sat on the rough bench in the yard, close enough to watch his mother as she plied the threads through the loom on her lap._

_"Pay attention to what maman?"_

_She leaned over enough to tweak his nose, "To everything. Fate gives you a chance to change it, if you can see the signs." She hummed a tune for a few bars as she picked the thread through the warp. "Long ago your great grandmother, she saved her son from a runaway horse. She'd seen a gull flying over the vardo and knew such a thing foretold the threat of death in the family. Because she'd seen the sign, she was alert enough to change his fate." Dark eyes twin to his own bored into d'Artagnan through the years, "Pay attention and you can change it."_

"Are you paying attention, d'Artagnan?"

The voice broke into his reverie, startling him out of the past to find Athos crouched before him, concern writ in the furrow of his brow. D'Artagnan's eyes flicked about, reorienting himself to the clearing and the bread and cheese before him. The others had clearly already finished their food. He wondered idly how long he'd been... distracted but mustered up a scrap of a smile for Athos, "Sorry. What was that?"

Athos head tilted as he ran through and discarded several questions, "You seemed lost in thought. Is something wrong?"

For a long moment, d'Artagnan had no idea how to even begin answering that question. But he certainly wasn't going to say that a seagull had flown overhead when they had made their temporary resting place and it felt like an omen of death he remembered from his childhood. He shook his head. "I'm fine." The glare that earned him wrung a laugh from him. "Truly. Just thinking about the patteron in the woods."

"It's right handy that you can read those," Porthos commented, idly aiming an acorn at something only he could see. With a sly grin, Aramis flicked a stick as soon as he tossed the acorn, knocking it out of the way and making him scowl.

"My grandfather taught me." The words came absently, d'Artagnan still more than half lost in a memory as he broke his bread and tucked the cheese inside.

The others froze at the words. Eyes wide, they waited a long moment to see if he'd say more, not wanting to push, but nothing further was offered as the younger man quickly finished off his food. With a measured glance at the others, Athos stood, brushing off his pants and looking deliberately back into the woods towards where d'Artagnan had pointed before, "You said the path was there?"

Swallowing the last of his bread, d'Artagnan nodded as he rose, "Yes. I don't think it's far."

True to his expectations, as soon as they were fully into the deeper woods, they found the clearing that had housed the gypsy camp. Or what was left of it. Wooden stakes littered the ground in the clearing intermingled with scraps of brightly colored fabric. The remains of a large campfire in the center had been kicked over and poorly smothered with dirt with a glint in the ashes that looked like a dented mug.

The whole scene prickled d'Artagnan's skin like a cold breeze. He slowly turned, taking in the whole of it as Porthos kicked at the ashes. "They're cool. Can't tell how long it's been."

Fingering a torn scarf on the ground near the outer edge of the clearing, Aramis commented, "They must not have found it too welcoming here with the Vicomte..." His voice trailed off.

Athos' sharp eyes took in the debris on the ground and the rough wagon tracks, "They clearly left in a hurry. Perhaps someone warned them that he took them for bandits." D'Artagnan wanted to shake his head though he didn't know why. Athos must have read his unease on his face, for he was suddenly beside him, a hand on his elbow, "d'Artagnan?"

The younger man chewed on his lip as he eyed a broken stake at his feet, "This isn't right." He glanced at the mug Porthos pulled out of the fire, "They wouldn't leave that behind."

Porthos tilted the mug and the light reflected off the dent in the side, "It's dented, not worth much."

This time, d'Artagnan did shake his head, "There's far too much... stuff here. Too much to show that they were here." Frustration painted itself across his features. "They leave only the signs behind. Nothing else."

"If they left in a hurry..." Aramis temporized as he joined them, holding his hands out in a placating gesture.

"I guess," d'Artagnan conceded, though he frowned at the twists of fabric at his feet. His boot scuffed through the dirt nearby, kicking up a small cloud of dust that dulled the bright colors.

Athos watched him for a moment and then turned to scan the woods around them. "There's no harm in being cautious." He moved back towards the horses, "We've found no evidence of bandits but we'll escort the Vicomte to court regardless. The Vicomte may be delusional but better prepared than..."

Porthos shot him a grin as he vaulted up onto his mount, "Heh, you think we're in the Shepard and the wolf?"

A withering glare shot his way. "I'll not answer to the King that something happened to lose him his tin mines that we could have prevented."

Clucking at them both, Aramis prodded his mount into motion, "Whatever we are doing tomorrow, tonight at least, I'd rather be in a warm bed than these woods. Let's head back."

The others followed, though d'Artagnan couldn't help but take one last glance over his shoulder at the deserted campsite, the cry of the gull echoing in his memory.  
__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No disrespect intended to the Romani as always. Traditionally, they have held a number of superstitions. The moth foretelling a letter is one of them; the gull as well. There may be one or two more before the end. ;) Although the end is coming up fast. 
> 
> The Shepard and the Wolf is an early name for the fable the Boy Who Cried Wolf. It's actually a rather old story though the more modern version starts appearing in the late 1400s. Some of the other early names include: "Of the child which kepte the sheep" "The boy who lied" and "A boy and false alarms." I thought the Shepard and the Wolf was the most recognizable without being overly blunt. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /author whistles quietly as she walks up/ Sorry this took so long - got very distracted by Gishwhes last week. But I'm just going to leave this here.... /runs away/ please don't kill me!

"We found a campsite." 

In the corner, the steward visibly startled at Athos' words and the Vicomte practically howled with glee at the table, "You see! You see! I told you!!" His arms flew through the air, clad in gold vestments that would not be out of place at a formal court audience. The candlelight bounced off them as he gestured, the effect dizzying in the darkness of the hall.

Athos held up a gloved hand, raising his voice to be heard over the Vicomte's effusions, "We don't know if it was bandits." He exchanged a long look with Aramis and caught the darkening of d'Artagnan's eyes beside him. Discretely, he clasped his hand around the Gascon's wrist, more as a reminder than a restraint, and tried again, "We found no weapons, no stolen goods, and no evidence that anything nefarious had taken place."

The Vicomte had quieted while Athos spoke and looked up with wide betrayed eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched on the tabletop before closing white-knuckled on his knife. Aramis kept his sharp eyes on the silverware before the Vicomte, hearing the shuffle of movement as Porthos shifted to cover their backs.

D'Artagnan's eyes flicked over the scene, reading the trouble to come in the tightening of Athos' jaw, and he swallowed his discomfort before putting on his most guileless expression, his free hand out and his voice as calm and steady as if he were soothing a startled horse, "The camp was empty, my Lord. And has been for some time. The woods surrounding your manor are clear." He kept eye contact with the Vicomte as he continued, leaning toward him in an intimation of intimacy, "It may be that they knew you had spotted them and fled. Or they fled our arrival. But we will still escort you to Paris. We will make sure you arrive safely."

He had no idea why the Vicomte seemed more willing to listen to him than the others - perhaps it was because he'd never been to the manor before? But he was grateful for it as the Vicomte's mood abruptly calmed and he clapped his hands like a delighted child, "Oh excellent! Most excellent! We'll leave tomorrow." 

The Musketeers bowed, not taking their eyes off the Vicomte for a moment as they left the room.   
__

They had, perhaps, underestimated the Vicomte's enthusiasm for going to court. He entered the courtyard at dawn, just as they had settled in to wait for him until noon. The Musketeers scrambled to attention as the man beamed at them, cheerily giving a flourish, "And how do you like my travel clothes?" 

D'Artagnan blinked several times, thinking that perhaps the lack of sleep had fogged his eyes, but the vision before him did not change. The Vicomte had clearly felt inspired by their arrival if nothing else. His tailor must have worked the entirety of the day before and possibly through the night, for the leather that covered him from throat to mid calf still creaked with newness. Apparently, he couldn't bear to leave it serviceably plain as both the short leather jacket and the stiff breeches had been worked with gold throughout the borders and cuffs, elegant designs accented with small rounds of tin as if to underscore the source of his wealth. When he turned to accept the king's bag of tribute from the steward, d'Artagnan heard Porthos choke on a laugh as tin spangles hanging from his waist blinked in the yard. Hearing Aramis' low murmur, he followed the marksman's pointed glance to see the Vicomte had not bothered with boots but dark stockings trailed down to black leather shoes more appropriate to the shine of a dance floor and not the dirt of the road. 

"He's going to faint from the heat," d'Artagnan muttered, as he moved to untie his reins from the hitching post. A footman helped the Vicomte into the small traveling carriage. It sat heavy on its springs from the weight of the baggage but the horses looked sprightly enough. He was just glad they'd convinced the Vicomte that they'd be in Paris faster with less attendants. 

Swinging up onto his mount, Athos conceded the point with a tilt of his head and an impassive glare, "At least that will keep him quiet." Catching Aramis' eye, he jerked his head at the carriage, "d'Artagnan and I will take the lead. You two follow the carriage." Hard blue eyes leveled a glare at the coachman, "Keep up and stay between us. Shout if he needs a break but otherwise keep moving."  
__

 

It wasn't long before they breached the outer ring of forest and d'Artagnan found his hand resting on the curve of his pistol as they left the relatively safe range they had patrolled the day before for the deeper woods. The trees loomed over them, tangled with thick underbrush, and twisted together so tightly where they met that the resulting canopy plunged them back into a half lit twilight. The dimming of the light unsettled him and his dark eyes scanned the shadows between the trees restlessly. 

Gloved fingers lightly touched the back of his wrist and only the sure knowledge that it was Athos kept d'Artagnan from drawing. Athos did not look at him but his blue eyes were shadowed and squinted as they peered into the deeps of the forest, as if by force of will he could get them to give up their secrets. 

Despite the general unease, the first two hours after they breeched the deep woods went smoothly enough though they made poor time with the carriage mincing its way along to spare its occupant a bumpy ride and irritation was riding Athos' like a cloak. A glance to his left informed him that d'Artagnan's shoulders were still tight with tension despite the relative peace of the forest. He opened his mouth to enquire when, suddenly, d'Artagnan stiffened, yanking on the reins of his horse with one hand as he drew his pistol with the other. Athos found himself suddenly forced to clutch at his own reins as the movement sent his own mount sideways. 

That movement saved his life. The sharp retort of gunshots filled the air and Athos felt a sickening punch as a bullet meant for his heart ripped through his shoulder instead. His right hand fell instantly numb, his half drawn sword falling back into its scabbard, as pain spotted his world. Fighting to keep hold of consciousness, he gave up on the reins, leaning forward slightly so he could direct his horse with his knees, and drew his pistol with his left hand. 

D'Artagnan was shouting back at the others from beside him, a thin curl of smoke still wisping up from the barrel of his pistol. Movement just beyond the young Gascon caught Athos' eye and his pistol barked in his hand before he even realized he'd aimed. The recoil jostled his shoulder and red washed over his vision. 

He must have lost a few seconds because the next thing Athos knew, a white faced d'Artagnan had his reins and they were tearing through the forest, the carriage close on their heels. He could hear Aramis' steady fire guarding their rear, but the answering gunshots seemed to echo all around them. 

The thundering of horse hoofs filled d'Artagnan's ears as they crashed forward, careful to make sure the carriage was still keeping with them. He picked off a black garbed figure in the treeline taking a bead on the carriage and then swung his attention back to the road. There was a fork a scant mile or so ahead - the well beaten path towards Paris split off to the right while a rough path cut into the woods on the left. Dark figures lined the path to the right - d'Artagnan may not be a marksman of Aramis' calibre, but his eyes were sharp enough to see it. 

Desperate, he looked over to Athos, seeing the spread of red soaking his leathers at the shoulder but the older man shook his head and shoved his ever present scarf under his leathers to staunch the wound. Chewing his lip, d'Artagnan looks back to the carriage. "Aramis! Porthos!" Both men glanced over at his shout. "The carriage is too slow! Get them off the carriage and we'll use it to block the road!" 

Porthos didn't bother acknowledging. In one smooth action, he tossed his pistol to Aramis and spurred his horse to pull even with the carriage. Aramis moved even with the driver, gesturing him to take one of the carriage horses and unhitch them even as put the pistols to good use. The Vicomte was pulled almost bodily out of the carriage and Porthos slung him over the second carriage horse before using his schiava to free the animals from the trappings of the carriage. 

Suddenly horseless, the carriage crashed forward a few more yards before overturning entirely as d'Artagnan led them onto the rough forest path. The wreckage of the carriage spewed dust into the air, layering the area with a cloud and the Musketeers spurred their horses to greater effort to buy as much distance in the confusion as they could, pulling the carriage horses with them and darting down side paths at random. 

D'Artagnan couldn't be sure how long it had been - a half hour at least - before the sounds of pursuit faded enough he felt safe to slow them all to a walk. "Aramis, Athos needs attention," he said immediately, drawing the marksman's attention and not giving Athos a chance to downplay his injury.

Blue eyes glared fiercely but Aramis ignored it as he peeled the leathers from Athos' shoulders and peered under the makeshift bandage. He looked up, "The ball is still in there. I'll bandage it for now but I'll have to get it out before I can stitch it up." 

Frowning, d'Artagnan surveyed the woods around them, his brows drawn together in concern. He looked closer at the path they were on, at the branches and brambles surrounding them. "We're far from the road to Paris," he commented in a low voice to Porthos as the bigger man came up beside him. "And this path..." He squinted into the distance where the path branched yet again, "It's new, though someone wanted it to look natural. It's like someone has cut a maze through the woods."

Porthos tilted his head as he examined the ground but he was city bred and one path looked much another to him. "I'll take your word on dat," he commented wryly. He jerked his head back to where the carriage driver was consoling the Vicomte as he bewailed the loss of his luggage, "More importantly, what are we going to do now?"

D'Artagnan didn't answer for a long minute, watching as Aramis tightened the bandage around Athos' shoulder before pulling his leathers back over it as gently as possible and securing his arm in a makeshift sling. "This far from the road, there's no way we'll make Paris tonight. We'll have to try for the river. Find someplace defensible to bed down tonight. Aramis can work on Athos' arm and we can follow the river to Paris in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this is a good downpayment on Athos whump, Hsg. ;) 
> 
> Thanks to everyone as always for comments and kudos. They are more appreciated than I can possibly tell you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, there is a teensy cliffhanger but at the end of this section I was just over 1000 words and my current personal rule says that means post. so here you are. 
> 
> As always, the comment and kudos are deeply appreciated. I cannot begin to tell you how encouraging they are and how appreciated.

  
D'Artagnan could not remember a ride that felt so long since his father had been murdered. The Vicomte had held his peace while they had searched for and found a small stand of trees that could at least provide them with some protection if those chasing them came near, but no further. His outraged complaints over being forced to sleep on the ground and to endure without his luggage snapped vehemently through the campsite in a vicious snarl that the Musketeers collectively ignored for the more important issues at hand. The complaints cut off and the noble's face blanched as a grim faced Porthos took hold of Athos' shoulders while d'Artagnan gave him a short strap of leather to bite as Aramis started to work. 

The man had obligingly fainted when Aramis had pulled the ball from Athos' shoulder with a wet plop. D'Artagnan spared him barely a glance, glaring at the carriage driver to care for his liege before turning his attention back to Athos. The older Musketeer was panting, sweat rolling down his face, but he was conscious enough to wince when Aramis poured his wineskin over his shoulder before setting the needle to it - though d'Artagnan thought it might be as much for the waste of wine as for the pain. 

When Aramis finished, d'Artagnan opened his mouth to take the first watch only to find Porthos already moving, scrambling more deftly up the tree they'd chosen as a lookout than his bulk would imply. He looked over to Aramis but the marksman only tossed his and Athos' cloaks with a pointed look as he settled himself tiredly into the crook of a tree. 

In truth, d'Artagnan had been loathe to leave Athos' side and was grateful to be spared the need. He tucked the cloak around Athos, careful around his bandaged shoulder. He could see the afterimage of the red stain on leather even after he'd tucked the blanket over him and his head hung for a moment as he allowed the fear and anger to wash over him. 

The clasp of a hand on his wrist startled him and dark eyes jerked up to meet stern blue ones, hooded with exhaustion but still clear. "Don't." D'Artagnan licked his lips but didn't respond and the grip on his wrist tightened, as Athos repeated, his voice thick with pain and exhaustion, "d'Artagnan, don't."

"I should have seen them sooner," the words were a bare whisper and d'Artagnan could hear his mothers' words echoing behind them in his head. _Pay attention, little love._ _  
_

Athos fought the urge to growl at him, "You were the first one to see them at all. And if you hadn't forced my horse back, I'd be dead." D'Artagnan flinched at the blunt words but Athos was too tired to be gentle. Exhaustion was blurring the edges of the world but he held onto the sight of those dark eyes, willing the Gascon to believe him. 

"You need to rest, Athos. We'll have to move in the morning" The glare he received in response made it clear that Athos had not missed the poor attempt at distraction but d'Artagnan moved to spread his cloak as much over them both as he could and the warm heavy weight of their combined cloaks was too much for the wounded man to resist. If the arrangement also meant d'Artagnan could feel the movement of Athos' chest and feel in an all too certain way that he still breathed, d'Artagnan could not bring himself to be ashamed of that. 

__

They set off in the morning as soon as enough light filtered through the trees to ensure the safety of the horses. When it came time for Athos to mount his horse, the tightening of Aramis' lips made it clear that he was not pleased but he did not speak out, knowing as well as the rest of them that they were in no position to fight off a horde of bandits there. Athos himself made any debate moot, swinging himself up on the animal with more determination than grace and staring at the woods, white faced but obstinate, waiting for them to mount. 

By unspoken agreement, d'Artagnan led the way with Porthos at the rear while Aramis paced Athos, much to the older man's irritation. The still woozy Vicomte traveled in the middle of the pack, his wide eyed carriage driver always within reach in case of another incident. The going was slow; d'Artagnan did his best to scout the path but with Athos wounded and the Vicomte useless, he didn't dare go too far ahead. He would frequently dash ahead on a path, only to find it led to a dead end or circled back on itself.

It was midday, by their best guess, with no sign of the Seine when they came upon the crossroads diverging east and west. Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks while d'Artagnan peered into the forest, but both paths trailed off quickly into the tangle of the deep woods with no real sign of where they led. Absently, he massaged the new healed skin on his leg as if massaging out an ache barely noticed, as he cast a glance back at the Vicomte, "We need to get to the river. These are your woods, m'lord, does anything look familiar?"

The Vicomte colored as he looked back and forth, eyes wide, and mouth working like a fish. The carriage driver sighed and prodded his horse forward, "No one's been in the woods for months. Not since the tanner's wagon di'n't make it back." He looked grimly over the paths, "None of these trails were 'ere before. There were two ways - one t' Paris and t' other to Spain. Maybe a few hunter's trails but nothing like this." 

Letting out a slow breath, d'Artagnan wracked his brain to try and remember the maps he'd seen of the forest, to guess whether the east or west path was more likely, when he spotted the crow lying on the edge of the path to the west. 

Its feathers bore the dull sheen of death and a crooked wing splayed out from the underbrush to touch the rough edge of the path. Long buried instinct had d'Artagnan shying back from the sight, turning his horse and leading them down the eastern path before he fully processed that he'd made the decision.   
The others followed dutifully and fortune must have smiled on the choice as the woods seemed to clear, the foliage thinned, and a distant rolling thrum reaching their ears that d'Artagnan fervently hoped was the river. He was straining to see the tell tale glint of water when the sharp trill of a lark hit the air. Discretely pulling his pistol onto his lap, d'Artagnan kept his head ducked down but turned a hooded gaze to the surrounding trees, trying to spot what had made Porthos sound that particular signal. _  
_

His gaze swept the trees and it didn't take long for him to spot the bright shine of eyes in the leaves. _Pay attention, little love._

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Another gypsy superstition here, a crow standing in the road signifies a happy journey while a dead crow in the road would cause a gypsy to turn back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! Hopefully the little bit of extra length on this makes up for the lateness. I cannot tell you how much I've appreciated the comments and kudos lately. I was struggling on every single thing I've been working on and those were incredibly encouraging. I'm pleased enough with where this one is at and I hope you are too. Enjoy.

"Pesha?!" D'Artagnan pulled his pistol just in time and the leaves rustled as the boy bolted. Throwing a quick hand signal back at the others, he spurred his horse forward, darting around the corner in chase. But the boy was lithe and quick, able to cut through the dense wood where d'Artagnan's mount was limited to the path. Hearing the others behind him, d'Artagnan yielded to instinct and pushed ahead in the direction the boy had gone. 

The clearing came upon them suddenly; d'Artagnan's horse shying away from near collision with a wagon. It was only his skill as a horseman that let him keep his seat as he pulled the reins and the horse nigh spun, only narrowing missing crashing into the wood. 

A slow clap greeted him as he brought the animal to a shuddering halt, patting its neck in apology as his lungs heaved in great gasping breaths. The others arrived with less near calamity but the surprise on their expression mirrored his own as they all took in the laconic expression on the familiar old woman in the worn blue wrap as she gave a final clap, "It appears I was wrong about finding us again. Half breed you might be but you have your people's touch with a horse, Musketeer." 

"Phuri Dae," d'Artagnan meant to say more but one look back at Athos' pale face drowned his curiosity in a fresh wave of worry. "We have wounded." It came out more curtly than he would have liked but Athos was swaying on his horse and there was a sheen to his brow that bespoke the onset of fever. D'Artagnan's jaw worked and he turned a flinty glare down at the old woman, "Will you help?"

A long moment passed but then the Phuri Dae nodded curtly and called over her shoulder back at the wagons as the Musketeers started dismounting. It was Pesha who came out with a patchwork bag, rushing over to where Aramis and d'Artagnan were helping Athos carefully from his mount. 

As soon as the older man was laid on the ground, the Phuri Dae went to work, feeling his brow and checking the wound itself. Within moments, she and Aramis were engaged in a conversation about herbs and wounds and infection. 

Loathe though he was to do so, d'Artagnan forced his gaze away as an ear splitting screech split the air. The coachman was attempting to placate the fuming Vicomte and clearly losing by the increasing redness of the man's face. D'Artagnan could see the Vicomte open his mouth again and dread filled him. Stone faced, Porthos moved from where he was picketing the horses but d'Artagnan was faster, darting over to the men, and blocking the Vicomte from view of the camp. 

"Gitain!" The Vicomte hissed as he flailed out of the driver's grasp, whites showing all around his eyes. "You've led us right to them!"

Heedless of the potential consequences, d'Artagnan shook the man, "Look around! These are not your bandits!" The Vicomte struggled and in one smooth move, d'Artagnan slid around behind him, his arm across the man's thin chest like an iron bar as he put his mouth near his ear, "Look at them!" The Vicomte pushed against the restraining arm but it was implacable. Porthos came up as d'Artagnan shook the Vicomte again, the darker man's grim mein a counterpoint to d'Artagnan's fierce command, "Look at them! Pay attention! These are no bandits."

Finally, the Vicomte looked. D'Artagnan physically turned him, forcing him to take in the camp in its entirety. The three wagons that remained to the clan were battered and scorched, the wheels pitted as if they'd been driven hard over unsuitable ground. There were only two men in view and both wore bandages with no weapons in sight. A woman sporting dark bruises hunched over soup that even from a distance was more water than substance and several of the children watched the pot with hungry eyes. 

Shaking his head, d'Artagnan closed his eyes against the sight, "They are gitain, yes, but these are not your bandits, m'lord. If I had to guess, I would say these were the bandits first victims."

The Vicomte seemed stuck on the children, his eyes glued to them as his mouth worked soundlessly. D'Artagnan released him with a heavy head. "My apologies for restraining you, m'lord. I did not want you to do something you would regret." 

The air seemed to hold its breath for a long moment and, besides d'Artagnan, Porthos' muscles tensed, his arms loose and ready, but then the Vicomte shook his head in stunned disbelief, "No, no. The children. I had not seen the children."

Both Musketeers and the driver breathed a sigh of relief. Porthos cracked his knuckles, keeping a wary eye on the noble as he moved to help the driver tie up the last remaining horse, "Do we 'ave a plan, d'Art?"

Eyes already back on Athos, d'Artagnan tilted his head, "Working on it." He covered the ground quickly, crouching down besides Athos despite the pain it caused in his leg. "Aramis?" Giving in to the temptation to brush his hand over the older man's forehead, d'Artagnan winced at the heat under his fingers. Blue eyes opened only too briefly before closing again in pain and he looked helplessly at Aramis. 

Aramis shook his head as he accepted a small pile of leaves from the Phuri Dae, tasting a small edge to check its potency, "I'm going to have to reopen the wound." He gestured to the bloody shirt, pulling the ragged edges together so d'Artagnan could clearly see the hole, his forehead wrinkled, "There might have been a bit of cloth that I missed causing the infection." D'Artagnan hissed in a sharp breath at the words and the medic worried the corner of his lip before shaking his head, "If that's it, it must be removed, and then the wound closed to stop the bleeding before we can do anything else." 

D'Artagnan's hand tangled itself in Athos' hair for a moment before he let out a slow controlled breath,"What do you need?"

The medic gave a sharp glance at the Phuri Dae as she rummaged in her bag, pulling out another herb, "I suspect the grandmother here will have everything I need." His gaze slanted up towards d'Artagnan briefly, "I'll take care of Athos; you come up with a plan to get us out of this."

D'Artagnan's surveyed the small camp again, dark eyes clouded, "Working on it." His hand closed around the Phuri Dae's wrist as she reached into the bag and the woman snarled as she looked up. "You will help him." It wasn't a question. 

The old woman jerked her hand away and went back to pulling a pile of dried moss from her bag, "I have said already that I would. Do not anger me, young one, or I will put the eye on you so that your children's children will still feel it."   
__

It was an hour or more before they finished, with the sun setting behind them. The Vicomte and the driver had been settled in one of the remaining wagons where they would be least in the way while D'Artagnan and Porthos spent the time as best they could - covering the entrances to the clearing and laying rough traps for the unwary in the dark - but the sick feeling in d'Artagnan's stomach hadn't abated. It only worsened as Aramis threw down a bloodied rag, cursing in Spanish as he ran a hand through his hair, seemingly not noticing the blood flaking off it. Leaving Porthos to guard the perimeter, d'Artagnan moved closer to the fire they'd built near Athos. 

Fear must have been blatantly obvious in his expression because Aramis looked up and winced, "I don't know, d'Artagnan." His voice was weary and there was something akin to shame in the creases of his forehead, "There was no sign of cloth in the wound but he's still running a fever." D'Artagnan laid a hand on his shoulder but the Spaniard shook it off, curls falling to shadow his face as his voice thickened, "Riding pell-mell through the forest isn't exactly ideal for healing." 

Working his jaw, d'Artagnan took a long slow breath before speaking, "Aramis..." He had to swallow before he could finish, "We have to move tomorrow. They made these paths; there's no way they won't find us if we stay put." He hated himself for saying the words, but Athos would not forgive him if they failed in their duty. 

The dismay underlying Aramis' expression deepened, making him appear older and showing all the exhaustion of the past two days all at once. "I know." 

The Phuri Dae glared down at Athos' pale face but there was a shade of something in her gaze... She called out a string of words to Pesha that d'Artagnan, with his limited half-remembered Romani, had no hope of following. The boy moved like the wind, returning to the fireside with a small bundle, wrapped in a cloth so dark it seemed almost a hole in the night. The boy held it out and waited in silence, a solemn respect on his face that sat oddly on one so young. 

The old woman herself moved with great deliberation, folding back her sleeves exactly and tucking away her wrap so that nothing could fall forward. With careful movements, she unfolded the fabric to reveal a twisted root, not half the length of d'Artagnan's palm. It seemed a sickly orange in the firelight and the two Musketeers watched carefully as the Phuri Dae grasped it, using the fabric to cover her hand, and carved the root into thin slices with a wicked paring knife she pulled from her waistband.

"What is that?" Aramis' voice was hushed, the solemn quiet of the Rom laying over them all like a blanket. 

"Emundad." The Phuri Dae said curtly as she nudged the slices onto a flat rock with the tip of her knife and started smashing them with the flat of the blade.

D'Artagnan cast a questing glance at Aramis but the marksman shook his head, at a loss, "What does it do?" 

Eyes like gimlets locked with his as the firelight glinted off the metal of her knife, "Those men in the forest."

"The bandits?"

The old woman nodded in response to d'Artagnan's question though she dropped her eyes back to the rock as she rotated it and began smashing the paste in a different direction. "They are marime..." She shook her head. "There is evil there. The evil has gotten into the wound."

Skepticism shows clearly on Aramis' face but he allows her to smear the paste on the wound before binding it up in cloth. D'Artagnan thinks absently that she must have impressed him indeed to be allowed such faith. Something about the root and the process seemed familiar to him but he couldn't catch the memory. "Will this cure him?"

Folding the dark fabric carefully and then throwing it into the fire, the Phuri Dae shrugged, "It would be better if there were more but that was all we had. He is strong; it should be enough."

Aramis frowned as he finished tying off the bandage, "Can we get more?" 

Her silver hair winked in the firelight as she shook her head, looking out into the darkness at something beyond sight, "No. It came from far from here. A place I have never been. I was given it by the Phuri Dae of another clan. I have never seen it's like in all my travels." She looked back at Athos' prone form; d'Artagnan fancied he could already see the flush of the fever receding. 

The easing of Aramis' expression seemed to confirm the same and d'Artagnan couldn't help the relief that swept through him, "Thank you." But gratitude could not eclipse all suspicion, "Why would you give us something so rare?" 

Her knobbly hand hovered over the bandage for a long moment as she hesitated, "There is evil behind those men. It follows like a shadow. My people cannot fight; we will run. You will have no choice."

"I thought the Lovari were the star readers," d'Artagnan spoke harshly, holding out a hand to cover the weapon Aramis had drawn. Aramis' eyes narrowed; beyond him, Porthos eyes shone in the darkness momentarily but he moved no closer. 

Though her eyes were old, the Phuri Dae had not missed any of the exchange and her mouth quirked up in a smile, "I do not need to read the stars to know that you intend to protect the man of tin. The shadow comes for him."  
___

After that pronouncement, the Phuri Dae left the fire in a swirl of skirts, leaning heavily on a cane back to the wagon. Porthos appeared out of the darkness at Aramis' back, "D'ya think she knows somet'ing or is she just blowin' smoke?"

Aramis was checking Athos' temperature again and was clearly pleased with what he found, sitting back on his heels with a shake of his head, "She knows her remedies at least. His fever is breaking already." He looked up at d'Artagnan, "We'll be able to move tomorrow."

Eyes still on the scorched wagon, d'Artagnan nodded absently, "Yes, we'll have to move." Possibilities sparked through his eyes as a plan settled, "You'll take Athos, and the Vicomte. The clan will be safe enough once we're gone."

"And what will you be doing?" The shrewd question came out dryly as Aramis leaned back on his heels. 

"I'll go back the way we came. Make some noise, see if I can get them to follow me." Dead silence followed his words and d'Artagnan swung his eyes back to the others.

Porthos loomed over Aramis, his grim face a stern counterpoint as the dead shock on Aramis' face bled away into outrage, "Are you insane? Leave you alone in a forest filled with bandits? Never." His curls bounced with the vehemence of his response as Porthos nodded in agreement, "All for one, d'Artagnan. We stick together."

"Not to mention," Porthos chimed in as d'Artagnan was clearly dumbfounded by that response, "Athos would murder us."

"That too," Aramis conceded, slanting a grin up at the bigger man.

Before d'Artagnan could respond, an unexpected voice broke in, "They're not wrong." All three men startled and looked down as Athos struggled to push himself up. Both d'Artagnan and Aramis had their hands on him in an instant but he kept tired eyes insistently on d'Artagnan, "Find another way." He lay back as if even that had exhausted him but he was awake and that was more than they'd been able to hope for scant hours before.

All the things d'Artagnan wanted to say seemed to crash together in his brain but he settled on the immediate problem, "I don't... I don't have a better plan. We don't know enough about them."

A small shadow separated from beyond the fire and Pesha stepped into the light, "I can help."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly to make up for how much I struggled with the last chapter, this one came quite easy. I think one or two more will see the end of this one...

"I can help." The words seemed loud in the darkness, filled with childish pride. 

The Musketeers exchanged arch looks before d'Artagnan ventured to question gently, "What do you mean, Pesha?"

The boy's jaw jutted forward mulishly, and Aramis had the sudden thought that this was exactly what their Gascon must have looked like as a boy as he spoke, the words tripping over themselves, "I can help. I know where they are."

His fists clenched as Aramis and Porthos spoke at once, the words lost between them until a curt voice cut through them both, "Explain boy." The words were short with pain but the blue eyes that focused on him, though tired, were clear. D'Artagnan shifted without comment, placing his knees beneath the older man's head, keeping one hand firmly on his shoulder in a clear message. 

The boy's bravado faltered but his words continued, if more haltingly than before, "I go into the woods. Bring back nuts and roots for soup. Sometimes herbs if the grandmother wants them. After..." he looked unsure but d'Artagnan nodded encouragingly. "I've been scouting ahead. I am small and fast. They cannot catch me. They do not see me." He grinned. "I have seen where they sleep."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, d'Artagnan felt an answering grin spread across his face, "Now that, I can work with."  
_

"I am not staying here with these heathens! I want to see those bandits eradicated!" The shrill voice split the silence of the pre-dawn world and the Musketeers collectively winced from where they were readying their horses. 

"Should 'ave sneaked away without telling 'im," Porthos muttered as he handed extra powder to Aramis, checking the packs for what supplies they had left.

"Couldn't risk him deciding to follow us if he just found us gone," d'Artagnan sighed as he tightened the girth on his horse. Something on the ground caught his attention and he squatted down to pluck it up before tucking in the strap.

Aramis loaded the harbequois with quick sure movements, sliding the extra firearms into the straps on his jacket, "If he keeps shouting, he'll bring the bandits right to us. We have to do something."

"I can watch him."

D'Artagnan was already shaking his head as he turned, and he voiced it as he saw Athos getting to his feet, his leathers in hand, "No. You should be resting."

Tipping the muzzle of the harbequois briefly in the other man's direction, Aramis echoed the sentiment with a frown, "What he said."

Athos glared at them both as he settled the leather over his bandaged shoulder, "There's no time to argue if you still intend to strike before dawn. We need to stay together. I will cover the vanguard and guard the Victome with his man."

The dry pragmatism in his voice was undeniable and, much though he would have liked to deny it, d'Artagnan knew it would do no good. He turned briefly to Aramis, who was frowning but not speaking against it - which was as good as permission from the normally voluble man. A glance at Porthos netted him a shrug, "Your show, d'Art." He scratched his jaw thoughtfully, "Won't object to having another sword at our back though."

One look at Athos' expression and d'Artagnan knew this was a battle he would lose and there were more important battles to fight. He clenched his hand tightly and then walked over to Athos. "Are you sure?" he kept his voice low, as if the others weren't unabashedly straining to listen to every word. 

From anyone else, Athos would have been affronted, but somehow from d'Artagnan, it warmed something in him and it showed in his voice, "I am sure that I am not staying behind. The Vicomte's man and I can keep in him check and I'll feel better if I'm guarding your backs."

It was as good as a speech from Athos and d'Artagnan gave in to the inevitable. With a glance down at his hand, he quirked his head and tucked the four leaf clover he had found in by the bandage, "You should carry this then." A rakish grin lit up his face, "For luck."  
__  
Long practice had the horses packed and the arms readied long before the sky started to lighten. After securing his pack to the horse, d'Artagnan turned only to find the Phuri Dae had materialized by his side. "Young one," the woman greeted him companionably as he started. 

"Phuri Dae," he choked out in response, thankful that his initial surprised curse had stayed inside his head. 

The old woman smiled as if she knew what he was thinking and folded her hands over her cane, "You will take care of Pesha."

It was not a request. "Of course we will. Once he gets us close, I'll send him back to you. He won't be allowed near the fighting." D'Artagnan eyed the movement in the camp, "You are leaving?" As they watched, two of the remaining children scuttled past through the shadows, clutching cookware to take back to a wagon. 

"There are too few of us now to survive on our own," her voice was heavy ladden with sorrow and the folds of her face more pronounced in the weak light. "We will seek another clan to join with."

D'Artagnan winced at the pronouncement, knowing that in joining, while survival would be gained, something of tradition and culture would inevitably be lost, "I am sorry." 

The sincerity in his voice made her smile, though it was a small thing, worn through by age and disappointment. "Do not worry for us. There are more of the Khalderosh out there. We will seek out more of our own." Her eyes turned sly as she glanced back at him, "And you will be doing us service enough by distracting the men who haunt this forest." 

Ruefully, d'Artagnan shook his head, "Thank you for offering shelter last night." He inclined it at Athos, "And you have my thanks again for him."

Consideringly, the Phuri Dae watched the older man adjusting his saddle before turning to d'Artagnan, "You must be careful."

The worry in her eyes made his stomach turn and his shoulders tense, "What do you mean? The fever's gone." It was a struggle to keep his voice low to keep from alerting the others. 

She raised up a knobby hand, "Peace. The Emundad always works. But these men are marime. Your dji is strong and the butyakengo will watch over you but you must keep an eye on him. If he is exposed to such evil again, I do not know that even that will save him."

Robbed of speech by that pronouncement, d'Artagnan stood in silence for a moment, watching without seeing as the Vicomte was helped onto his horse. An owl hooted, and the old woman crossed herself reflexively, "An owl hooting at dawn. A mixed omen. I pray it calls only the souls of your enemies."

Nothing more was said, the Gascon lost in thought as his eyes drifted inevitably back to Athos and the Phuri Dae turned to leave. "Safe travels," he finally murmured. 

"Good hunting, young one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos. 
> 
> *dji - spiritual energy, can also be heart, soul, spirit, or even in some cases stomach. Akin to the concept of chi.   
> *marime - a state of pollution or defilement. Can also refer to the sentence of expulsion from the community though there are better words for that  
> *butyakengo - a protective spirit who lives in a persons' body and forms part of deceased ancestor, usually handed down from parents to eldest child  
> *a four leaf clover, double clover, or any double flower is considered lucky  
> *Feared omens include an owl hooting closely after dawn, where it is said that the bird is calling a soul from a human body


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end has arrived! I hope you all have enjoyed it. I do have plans for a third. I haven't decided if I'm going to that one next or the next Threads of Fate story but I should have something up soon. As always, the comments and kudos are so very much appreciated. Thank you everyone.

  
"Just past t' bend," the boy's whisper laid softly on the air, barely audible over the susurrus of the forest leaves. "They've put branches up to hide the way in but they're real thin."

D'Artagnan let go of the branch he'd been peering through, "How many have you seen?"

  
The lad tilted his head, his mouth moving soundlessly as he squinted at his fingers, "Maybe a dozen?"

Twelve. Not ideal but doable. "Well done, Pesha." A quick glance netted a nod from Aramis and Porthos and the other two melted into the forest. He glanced back at Athos, who was glaring at the forest as if it had taken his wine as he primed his pistol, the motions stilted with his wounded arm in a sling but sure.

D'Artagnan's dark eyes stayed steady on him until blue eyes met his. For a moment, something torn peeked through the glare and d'Artagnan feared he was going to advance, move forward, and d'Artagnan couldn't have this fight now, not with the battle yet to be joined and silence and surprise the best weapon they had. Before he could shake his head, from behind Athos, the sharp crack of a breaking twig sounded and the older man jerked his horse back to still the Vicomte and pull him further back. They waited a long moment to be sure the sound had not carried but luck was with them and the forest remained still. Athos glanced up one more time and gave d'Artagnan a curt nod. 

The Gascon breathed a sigh of relief and ruffled Pesha's hair with a gloved hand as he whispered, "Go back to the clan now, Pesha." The boy opened his mouth to protest but d'Artagnan covered his mouth with his hand, not so subtly blocking his way forward, "No. You've done your part. This next bit is ours and I am not explaining to the Phuri Dae if you get hurt." A light kindled in the boy's eyes d'Artagnan recognized as stubbornness and he had no qualms about playing dirty, "The clan is moving. If you stay, you'll lose them and walk the long road alone."

Terror and dismay warred on the boy's face for a long moment before he bolted back into the woods so quickly it brought a smile to d'Artagnan's face. He waited until the boy was fully swallowed up by the leaves before he drew his sword, murmuring to himself, "One for all." The blade cut the faint rays of the dawn as he gave the signal, "All for one."

__

Much to d'Artagnan's shock, the first part of his plan went, well, to plan. The bandits had held sway of the forest too long. They thought the musketeers fled and it had lulled them into complacency and the lone lookout fell beneath Porthos' bulk without a sound before the big man joined d'Artagnan plunging into their midst. Aramis had perched in a tree and was calmly picking off any who attempted to circle around them, though, now that there was no need for quiet, he kept up a running litany of complaints about the bark scratching his delicate skin and the branches catching his curls.

Athos listened from just beyond the clearing, his horse shifting restlessly as it reacted to its riders' mood. He could pick out flashes of the battle between the branches but his gaze kept being drawn back to the elegant flash of d'Artagnan's blade. The Gason was whirling through the bandits, a dashing smirk on his face as he engaged one after another with a flourish. The sheer vitality of him stole Athos' breath away. 

Half the bandits were downed before any resistance appeared but desperation fueled those that remained and they fought more like demons than men. A badge of red streaked d'Artagnan's forehead, filling Athos' vision, and he was three feet closer before the sound of the Vicomte panicking behind him reined him in. D'Artagnan was still standing, standing and fighting, so it likely was only a scratch, but that didn't soothe the empty silence echoing in his head. To keep his hand occupied, Athos grabbed onto the Victome's reins, his fingers turning white in his gloves with the force of his grip as he forced himself to stay back. His other thumb flicked back and forth over the hammer as his eyes flicked over the confrontation. 

But the fight was mostly over. One bandit remained and d'Artagnan had wounded him, fatally if Athos was any judge. But the man was still fighting wildly as he clenched his left arm over the stomach wound. His clothes were of a finer cut than most of the others and Athos suspected he must be the leader, that d'Artagnan had likely singled him out deliberately, but whatever skill he had was leaking out of him with his life blood. Calmly, d'Artagnan turned his sword again in a sweeping parry and the man finally showed enough sense to turn and run. 

Only to find himself at the tip of Porthos' schiava as the bigger man bared a grin that had far too many teeth. Glancing back and forth between them, despair turned his face to a grimace and the bandit dropped his sword and pulled his main gauche, moving to bring it up to his own throat. 

D'Artagnan was there before he could, his sword snaking in to deliver a sharp blow to the wrist, breaking it and knocking the main gauche away before he could break skin.  
Porthos grabbed the man's arms roughly to ensure there were no further surprises. "No," the Gascon said fiercely, the blood dripping down the side of his face giving him a sinister aspect, "no coward's way out for you." 

The man struggled briefly before sagging in Porthos' hold, looking down at his gut with a grim smile as he panted, "Won't need it."

The tip of d'Artagnan's sword moved the torn cloth of the man's shirt aside, exposing the wound, "There's time enough." His expression turned hard, "You stayed in the forest for months without making a direct attack, until the Vicomte came out..." He let the words hang. 

"I won't tell you anyt'ing," the man spit the words at d'Artagnan but the words cut off in a scream as Porthos jerked him up roughly. 

"None of that now," the bigger man warned, his voice barely more than a growl, "Or my grip might slip, understand?"

The bandit leader gulped in great heaves of air, his face pale and beaded with sweat. "We were to kill the Vicomte," the words tumbled over themselves as his eyes darted desperately between them. "Take over the mines..."

"We gathered that," d'Artagnan commented lightly. Aramis came up behind them and the bandit looked up in hope before he caught sight of the Spaniard's grim expression and tight lips. The hope drained out of his expression as d'Artagnan flicked his eyes to Aramis, who shook his head. There was nothing he could do.

Tilting his head back to the bandit, d'Artagnan tapped the tip of his sword on the man's chest lightly, eyeing the darker patch where an emblem had clearly been removed. "There is time enough," he repeated deliberately. "I'd suggest you tell us what we want to know."

"I can't," the bandit gasped, "You have no idea..." 

All three Musketeers perked up but the statement trailed off as the man clearly fluttered in and out of consciousness. Aramis stepped up, arching an eyebrow, though his words were not unkind, "No one can fix that wound. You will not last long enough to fear anyone else's retribution. Tell us what we want to know and have that to offer to God at least."

"You don't understand," The man's face was writ over with terror and desperation as his eyes rolled wildly. "He's coming... Death..." A choked groan overwhelmed the words and the man seized in Porthos' arms before the groan turned into a shuddering rattle. 

Aramis swore softly under his breath, taking off his glove with his teeth before reaching to lay his fingers against the man's neck. "In nomine Patris," the whispered words were as good as confirmation to the others and Porthos lay the body on the ground to allow Aramis the space to say his prayers. 

Lifting a hand in a quick signal, d'Artagnan crouched next to the marksman, patting down the doublet. He could hear the whimpering of the Vicomte as the coachman tried, and failed, to keep him from following Athos into the clearing. A shadow fell over them as the older musketeer joined them at the body, "Anything?"

Porthos scoffed as he went to check out the other bodies, "Din't tell us anyt'ing."

D'Artagnan stared at the body for a long moment before rising, "He did. Just not enough." Shadowed brown eyes looked over at Athos, "They were after the Vicomte. He mentioned taking over the tin mines." The Gascon chewed on the side of his lip again as he looked back down on the body, annoyance passing briefly over his face as Aramis pressed a cloth in his hand waving at his forehead, "And he was more afraid of whoever gave the order than he was of death." With a glare, he took the cloth from Aramis and pressed it to the wound.

Athos' face clearly showed his displeasure, "Anything on the body?"

"No." D'Artagnan pointed to the darker area on the tunic with the bloody cloth, "He definitely was on someone's orders though."

Eyes wide, the Vicomte's hand closed on the Gascon's sleeve, "What does this mean?" 

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look as d'Artagnan quickly hid the cloth. "I'm sure it's nothing, my Lord," the younger man soothed. "The bandits are clearly dead so your forest will be safe." Ashen, the Vicomte started to open his mouth, his hand trembling, but d'Artagnan beat him to it, motioning over his coachman, "After we finish here, we will escort you to Paris and make sure the King is aware of what happened."

Clearly shaken, the Vicomte looked around at the bodies, "I knew they were after me. I knew it!" The coachman made sympathetic noises as he led the man back to the horses. 

"I think we should..." Athos started idly but d'Artagnan cut him off with a fond shake of the head. 

"No." 

Before Athos could bring it up again, and by the way he was adjusting the grip of his left hand on the sword he was going to bring it up again d'Artagnan knew, Porthos' voice cut in, "Eh, I think y'all want t' see this."

He was crouched on the ground near the supply chests when they reach him, gloved finger brushing the dirt off something in his hand. When d'Artagnan gets closer, he could see it was the remains of a wooden crest. Part of it at least. A rough emblem, probably once a seal or a crest on a supply chest based on what remains. He couldn't make out enough to identify it but just looking at it troubles him and it was like he can feel his mother's hand on his shoulder,  _Pay attention, little love._ _  
_

The magnitude of Athos' scowl told d'Artagnan the former Comte had no better idea. He doesn't bother to ask if there was more to be found, if there had been, Porthos would have it already. "We'll have to see if the Captain can narrow it down. Or if not him, someone at Court might recognize it."

The rise of a high pitched wail put them all on notice that the coachman was had lost his own battle and d'Artagnan sighed, "Let's get moving. We can go back to the river, follow it to Paris..." He shook his head tiredly but cut it off with a wince as pain shot through his head and he closed his eyes against the light for a moment.

"The Vicomte can be the Palace Guards' problem," Athos' voice came from in front of him as he finished the thought, taking the bloody cloth from d'Artagnan's hand and pressing it against the still sluggishly bleeding wound. "And we can update Treville. See if we can't find out who was behind this and why." 

D'Artagnan leaned against the cloth for a moment, "Careful, that almost sounds like an actual plan." 

"We like to try new things sometimes," Aramis' dry voice cut in as the marksman turned his head. D'Artagnan left his eyes closed as the medic poked the wound. "It should be fine without stitches but if it starts bleeding again, we'll have to stop."

"It's fine." He doesn't need to open his eyes to feel the glares from all three men at the habitual words and it makes him almost smile. "Let's go."__

In the absence of pursuit, the return to Paris went smoothly. The Vicomte wept for joy when he spotted the King, words tumbling out in a rush as he hastened to explain why he missed his audience. The King soaked up the attention and the Musketeers took their leave before anyone could think to assign them to the Vicomte permanently.

  
Treville was not at the Palace. They found him back at the garrison, ensconced in his office. His face grew steadily darker as they gave their report. "You have no idea who was behind all this?"

The Musketeers exchanged glances and Porthos brought out the pieces of crest they had found. Treville rearranged them on the desk, as if he could force them to completion with effort but too much of the crest had been lost and he gave up with a sigh of disgust. "It's not enough. I can think of a half dozen sigils it could be in France alone." He tossed the pieces across his desk. "I take it there was nothing else? No one talked?"

"We questioned the leader," d'Artagnan's voice was quiet. "He refused to talk." He wanted to say more, wanted to describe just how afraid the man had been but it seemed so out of proportion in the sunshine of Paris. And there was nothing to be done about it anyway. If they couldn't get a lead off the sigil, they would just have to wait.

Treville let the silence linger for a long moment but then shakes it off, "Well, the Vicomte is safe. That's well done. Now that we know someone actually is after him, I'll assign him a squad or two until whoever is stupid enough to slip up." He held up placating hands as all four Musketeers opened their mouths in protest. "I won't send you. I'm frankly impressed everyone lived through the night. I'm not taking chances twice."

He shuffled some papers on the desk to find the duty roster and looked up, giving them a wry smile, "What are you still doing here? Don't think I don't see that sling, Athos. And there's blood at your hairline, d'Artagnan. Take a few days. Try to stay out of any kind of trouble that would come to my attention."

_

The yard was bright and, by the time Aramis was done with his doctoring, Porthos had managed to charm Serge into a small feast. As Aramis folded the spare bandages, d'Artagnan yanked the shirt over his head, feeling the pull of new scar tissue at his side but happy enough to be entirely free of bandages for the first time in weeks. He reached for his leathers, only to hear something clatter to the ground. 

The crest pieces lay there in the dust, sun shining on the worn wood. D'Artagnan reached out for them, only to pause and tilt his head. The sun glinted off the gold background and his finger reached out to trace a sweep of black that reminded him of the sweep of a bird wing. He picked it up thoughtfully, with the other piece, shot through with silver, and tucked them away before sliding into his leathers, not bothering with the buckles. There was nothing to be done about it today. 

Laughter pulled him out into the yard and he turned his face into the sunshine, letting the warmth soak through to his bones. "Come on, d'Art," Porthos called, waving a handful of bread at him, as Aramis slid into the table. Athos had already scrounged up a bottle of wine from somewhere and was pouring glasses for all. 

D'Artagnan met his eyes and with a quirk of his lip, Athos lifted his glass in a small salute. He laughed as he joined them, an echo sounding just behind his ear, _Pay attention, little love._


End file.
